


Home Fires

by FreshBell



Category: Original Work
Genre: /r/GoneWildAudio, Epistolary, F/M, Gentle Mdom, Orgasm Control, Romance, Teasing, script offer, secret project! through the mountain! secret secret secret project!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:33:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28939296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBell/pseuds/FreshBell
Summary: Your man is far away, and thinking of you. Where? When? Kind of up to you, if this is your romantic old fashioned man stranded on the other side of lockdown orders, or your Johnny gone for a soldier--either way, he's not here, but oh, if he was...
Kudos: 12
Collections: GWA Valentine's Day Project 2021 Script Collection





	Home Fires

**Author's Note:**

> I do no give permission for this to be posted anywhere but reddit and soundgasm!

[this is a letter, so, you know, not a lot by way of sound effects or direction are needed, I think. If you felt spicy and wanted to put some campfire crackling or cicada humming behind it, go for it, but nothing's really necessary. You, the reader, are far away, thinking of your lady. Thinking very specific things about your lady. There's a lot of "my love" in this, but like, you can replace that with an endearment you find more comfortable, baby or darling or whatever]

My love,

Paper is growing scarce, and I have been enjoined to avoid details of our work and surroundings, lest this fall into unfriendly hands. We have been lucky so far, but our luck won't last forever. Especially when I have left my own good luck at home.

You're laughing at me, now--you've always been so much more sensible than I am. At least, I imagine you laughing, and you won't begrudge me that, I'm sure? It's always been one of my favorite sounds. Your soft sleepy laugh in the mornings, your startled giggling in the afternoon. I imagine you often, in this place. I think it may be the only reason I don't run mad.

I imagine the things you would say, when everything is falling apart here, and all my companions are riding each other's nerves. How you make me smile in the worst of hours. I imagine the silent squeeze of your hand, wordlessly urging patience or courage or endurance. I imagine the dull endless tasks made peaceful by your shoulder against mine, your company turning boredom into meditation, into laughter. I imagine your head resting against my knee, the way you doze off with my fingers twisting braids into your hair...

I imagine the way you wake up, when my hands tighten. The startled little breath. The way you look at me, hoping it wasn't an accident. This letter has a certain tone, my love--if you are reading this in public, you should stop.

Are you home, now? Are you in our bed? I know it's cold there now. You must have the heavy quilt out. I hope you can imagine the weight of it is my arm over you, drawing you in. I hope you're curled up and warm and sleepy while you read this, and one of your clever hands is slipping between your thighs.

Go slow, if you are. Draw it out, like I would. Don't let yourself rush, like this is some task to finish. Go slow until your entire body aches with it, and know that if I were there, I would go slower still. I would lay against your back and play with you until you wept and swore at me, until there was nothing in the world but me and your own desperate need. You know I would, my love. I would put my mouth to your neck, and my hand between your legs. I would shush you and hold you still when you tried to rush me. Nothing happens until I give the order, that will ever be the case, and tonight I would tease you until your thighs were slick and your voice was hoarse with begging.

Can you imagine it? How you would twist in my grip, how you would come apart for me? How your man would draw the desire out of you until it was sharp, and hold you on that thorn until I was ready to have mercy? How only being filled by me could soothe your ache? How sweetly you would thank me, when I finally moved on top of you.

Do not finish yourself, my love. Not yet. I have suffered, these months without you--when I am in our bed again, I will make you suffer too. I would press myself against you, but not inside, not yet. I would let you feel what you need so badly, so close, so hard and ready, and you would be maddened beneath me. I know it. I have seen your face when I tease you until you can't bear it. You don't think yourself beautiful, in those moments, but I do. From the first time I pressed you against a wall and pushed my thigh between yours, I have loved the way you look when you are lost in me.

Or maybe you did not wait to be in bed. Maybe you're standing in the kitchen, reading this--I hope nothing is burning. I can see you there, still and silent and growing flustered, one hand pressed to your mouth. If I were there, I would not let you be silent. I would be on my knees, but you would be the supplicant when I put my mouth on you. Lucky woman, that our counters are sturdy--you will need the support. I am half-starved and will not be quickly satisfied. Let my jaw grow weary and your legs lose their strength, let the water boil away and your words desert you--you need say nothing but yes, and yes, and yes. You are my treat to enjoy as I please. Moderation is not in my plans. When you can no longer support yourself, I will lay you across the table and draw up a chair and continue my work until... [little laugh]...until my union card comes in the mail, I suppose.

You haven't finished yourself yet, I hope. I hope for your sake, more than mine. I know you'll tell me in your next letter if you obeyed me. There will have to be consequences, if you haven't. 

I do love it when you obey me. I know you love it, too. We are lucky to have found each other. I am lucky to have found you, my friend, my confidante, my laughter and my comfort, I would have been lucky even without this... but to know I can pull you over my knee and spank you until my own hand aches and find a wet spot on my trousers after...

I wrote this to torment you. I find I am tormenting myself.

My love, when I see you again--It will be in public. Across a train platform, there will be friends and family, I will be able to give you nothing more than a brief embrace... How long will it be, until we are alone together, until all the tears have been shed and the toasts have been drunk? Will your thigh be bruised already from my grip on it, as I sit next to you and whisper. Will our loved ones see it in your face, how you suddenly look down, breath catching, as caught as an animal in a snare?

Even that brief embrace will enflame me. You fit in my arms like we were stamped from dies. The feel of you, going soft and melted in my arms, before propriety demands we pull apart. The smell of you--you mustn't change your soap, my love, not until I come back. In the quietest part of the nights I can still smell it.

When our door closes behind us I do not think I will have it in me to be gentle. I hope you do not expect it. Not until I have spent myself on your body. In the morning you will be bearing my marks, and I will trace them, one by one, each physical manifestation of our own quiet miracle.

Are you still touching? Are you holding yourself there, just shy of the peak? I want you there, my love. I want you aching. Pull your fingers away, if you get too close, take the pillow from between your legs, whatever it takes. Don't go over. I love you when you are messy and wrecked and desperate. I am not there to hold your legs apart with mine. I am not there to mark your neck and restrain your wrists. But imagine me, love. Imagine my weight and my laughter and my patience outlasting yours.

Feel my warmth against your back. Feel the print of my teeth on your skin. Feel my hands, rough and gentle by turns. I still remember you. You are inside me deeper than thought. I still remember what it takes to pull you apart for me. Only when you begged so sweet for me would I let you tip over the edge. Open your bitten lips, my love. Whisper what you would say to me. Call me what you call me when it is only the two of us in our private paradise. Press your face against our sheets and plead for me. Wouldn't do to get out of practice. When this is over, I will want my good girl back.

Have you done it?

Now you may come, my love. Let yourself go over the edge for me. Know that you are still my pretty possession, no matter the miles between us.

Let me imagine you spent and gasping on our bed. Let me imagine kissing your sweat-damp temple, the nape of your neck. Let my arms be solid around you, as you catch your breath.

[maybe a pause, to let the listener come down, a sigh]

...Forgive this letter, my love. Spring must be in the air. There is little enough of news, and I am as well as can be expected--I decided to fill these pages with some of the coals that keep me warm, and hope they warmed you as well. Write me back, if you can. Tell me if you did as you were ordered. Tell me what you think of in the long nights. What do you crave, my love? What do you dream of, in these long nights?

I can hear my name being called. I must go. I am my beloved's, and you, my beloved, are mine--write me back. Keep me sane.


End file.
